


Parallel

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Teenlock, Unilock, ooc parents don't mind me, slow burn that thinks it's a fast burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28688994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: It happens, again and again. It happens every time Mycroft comes home. Sometimes, all they do is kiss. Most times, they do more than kiss. Mycroft never initiates it, but it doesn't matter when he always gives in, when he hopes for it, when he comes to look forward to the increasingly skilled seductions of his brother.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 25
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Listen along: [ Under the Table - BANKS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YP17cltPvaE)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be updated weekly until it is done :)

Mycroft was caught in an interminable conversation. Great-Aunt Petunia had finally managed to snag him in her conversational web, and he was a helpless little bug unable to entangle himself from its sticky strings. Unfortunately, there was an added obligation to nod along to whatever the blasted woman was saying as it was her ninetieth birthday. She had earned the right through the sole distinction of longevity to talk off the ears of everyone at this party. As his eyes drifted around the room, he brightened as he saw his mother make a beeline for him. He shot her a desperate look as she approached.

Violet winked at him before turning to address the chatty old woman. "Aunt Petunia, I'm afraid I'll need to steal Mycroft away for a moment. His brother's gone walkabout, and Mycroft here is usually the only one who can track him down."

Mycroft thanked his stars for Sherlock's well-timed excursion. "Well, it has been lovely chatting with you, Great-Aunt Petunia. I'll see you in a little bit once I've retrieved young Sherlock. Oh, look, here's cousin Thomas." He shot out an arm to grab on to his nearest relative. "Thomas, Great-Aunt Petunia has a fascinating tale about the bees in her backyard."

Thomas shot him a glare before he composed his face into polite solicitousness, as Great-Aunt Petunia had already begun talking. Mycroft smiled serenely at him before he walked away with his mother. "Any idea in which general direction I should go looking, Mummy?"

"The last anyone had seen of him, he had escaped through the garden doors in that general direction." She pointed it out to him. "It's been about an hour since anyone's seen him."

"I'm sure he's just fallen asleep in the grass or something like it. I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, Mycroft." She patted him on the cheek. "Sherlock's lucky to have you looking out for him."

Mycroft set out, knowing as soon as his mother had pointed where he would find Sherlock. There was a spot about fifteen minutes away that Sherlock loved, being near enough to the house while also being behind a dip to ensure he wasn't found if he didn't want to be. That is, except for Mycroft, who could always figure out which of Sherlock's chosen hiding spots he would be in, to his brother's lifelong annoyance.

Sure enough, Sherlock was there, leaned back on his haunches. As he approached, he noticed a wine bottle lying on its side next to Sherlock.

"You've been missed," Mycroft said as he took up a spot next to Sherlock.

"I wondered how long it would take." Sherlock looked at his watch. "Only an hour? Shame."

"Not for me. I've just escaped from the clutches of dear old Petunia."

Sherlock laughed before they fell into a comfortable silence. Mycroft knew he should say something about the drinking, but honestly, he was just tired of lecturing. Sherlock was of age, after all, so it wasn't that big a problem anyway. He put it out of his mind, instead taking a breath of the cool night air, and enjoying the soft breeze ruffling his hair. Most of all, he enjoyed being away from the party with far too many family members who were steadily becoming more inebriated as the night wore on. They were far enough from the house that the sounds of the party could no longer be heard, nor seen even if they weren't hidden by geography. Mycroft closed his eyes as he relished the quiet sounds of nature around them, and how, for just the moment, he merely existed in this place with Sherlock. 

They remain there for a long while, until Mycroft broke the silence. "Much longer out here and they'll think we've both been taken by the wilderness. Shall we head back?" He waited, but no response was forthcoming from his brother. He opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him keenly. "Sherlock? What is it?" He asked, curiously.

Sherlock just continued to look at him silently, his eyes tracing over the features of his face. Mycroft blinked. He had been on the receiving end of such looks before, but never had he thought that Sherlock would look at him like that. Suddenly, Sherlock reached out to grab him by the head, pulling himself in for a kiss.

Mycroft was too stunned to react, his eyes wide even as Sherlock's were squeezed shut. Sherlock drew away, looking between Mycroft's eyes. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something – though for the life of him, he had no idea what – but before he could form anything resembling a complete thought, Sherlock pressed his lips against his again.

This time, his eyes closed, involuntarily. His mind spun until it gave up trying to process the moment in favour of simply feeling: the wind-chapped lips, still inexplicably soft; the fingers in his hair holding him firmly in place; the warmth of Sherlock's body radiating through the layers between them. He returned the kiss with a cautious, tentative, gentle pressure. Sherlock inhaled sharply, his fingers tightening.

Mycroft came back to reality with a jolt when Sherlock's tongue swiped against his bottom lip. He drew back abruptly, pushing Sherlock away with a firm grip on his shoulder. "Sherlock. What are you doing?"

Sherlock looked at him with a hazy, unfocused gaze, blinking slowly. "I would have thought that was rather obvious, brother mine."

"Yes, but for heavens' sake, why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because." He slunk back to rest on his arms again, tilting his head up to the sky. "I wanted to," he declared to the sky.

"I'm your brother, Sherlock."

"Don't you think I know that?" Sherlock looked at him venomously before he returned his gaze to the stars. "Go away before you kill my buzz, Mycroft."

"No. You shouldn't even have been drinking. Come on, we have to head back to the house anyway," Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock tilted his head back fully, exposing the long, pale line of his neck, his skin almost translucent in the moonlight. Mycroft licked his hips as his eyes wandered over it, watching his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He quickly averted his gaze.

"Fine," Sherlock finally said. He scrambled inelegantly to his feet, stumbling even before he had made it five strides away from Mycroft.

Sighing, Mycroft went to him, grabbing him by the elbow to steady him. After a few more moments of struggle, he came to the end of his patience. "Get on my back before you break your ankles, would you?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock protested, even as he leaned more heavily on Mycroft.

"You're about to crack your head open on an ill-placed rock. Please."

"I'm not a child, Mycroft."

"Then stop acting like one. I can't do this for the rest of the walk back. And I think you'd prefer it to being thrown over my shoulder, so which is it?"

Sherlock threw his arms around Mycroft's neck. Instinctively, Mycroft held Sherlock to him as he swayed. "Or you could carry me in your arms?" His breath wafted against Mycroft's ear before his head fell like a rock to his shoulder.

"They'd think you were dead if I carried you into the house like that. Besides, you'd look like a limp noodle."

Sherlock laughed silently as he rubbed his face against the tweed of Mycroft's jacket, the gentle abrasion a pleasing sensation against his skin. Conversation ceased as they stayed in the embrace, Sherlock's heart pounding hard and fast in his chest. Mycroft didn't know if it was due to the alcohol or something else entirely, nor did he know which he hoped for. He simply willed his own into a steady beat, hoping to steady Sherlock's as well.

Sherlock stopped swaying as his heartbeat slowed to match Mycroft's. He pressed his face to the pulse in Mycroft's neck. It sped up as he inhaled, deeply. "You smell nice," he said, nosing at the sensitive skin.

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft murmured. "Stop this. You don't know what you're doing."

"Don't I? But why is that your first objection?" He withdrew from Mycroft's arms, walking around him. "Alright, you can carry me back. I'm too tired to walk, anyway." He clambered up, wrapping his arms tightly around Mycroft's shoulders.

They travelled on in silence, even when Sherlock started to play with Mycroft's ears, bending them this way and that before he simply traced the shell of his ear lightly. Mycroft didn't know what to say, anyway. Clearly, Sherlock couldn't be reasoned with in his current state. He wasn't even sure if he would remember any of this tomorrow. So, he stayed silent.

After a while, Sherlock's hand dropped away to flop uselessly in front of him. Mycroft couldn't turn his head to look, but he was quite sure that Sherlock had dropped off to sleep. Every once in a while, a sharp inhale told him that he must have been jostled somewhat awake, but it didn't take long before he dozed again.

Mycroft finally made it back to the house in that fashion, standing at the front door regretting the lack of a kick plate on it. He jostled Sherlock. "Hey, wake up. We're home. You're going to have to get off me now so I can knock on the door. Unless you have the keys?"

Sherlock shook his head sleepily, before he simply reached out to use the door knocker. He closed his eyes again, resting his head against Mycroft's.

Mycroft sighed quietly as he waited, and considered whether he needed to lecture Sherlock properly about drinking, or whether the inevitable hangover would be sufficient punishment. Before he could come to a decision, the door swung open.

"Oh my goodness," his mother said in surprise, before it quickly morphed into concern. "What happened? Is he alright?"

"Perfectly fine, except I found him with an empty bottle of wine. It's no use lecturing him about it now, Mummy."

"I can see that, Mycroft, thank you. Well, I suppose you had better put him to bed."

"Yes, and I think I will retire after that as well. It's been a rather long night."

"Of course. I'll make your apologies to the party." She reached out to ruffle Sherlock's curls and sighed. "I have no idea what to do with him."

"I guess we should start with a lesson about drinking responsibly, if he is going to start drinking now." Mycroft gave her a wry smile before he headed for the stairs. "Goodnight, Mummy."

"Yes, well, when has he ever done what should be done?" She mused to herself. "Oh, goodnight, Mycroft."

Mycroft had already dismissed her from his mind as he ascended the stairs, focusing instead on making it up safely. Reaching Sherlock's bedroom door, he jostled him again. "Alright, sleepyhead, I have delivered you to your bedroom door. It really is time to climb off, now."

Sherlock grumbled as he roused, stumbling lightly as his weak legs were made to stand himself up. He blinked stupidly at Mycroft for a few moments. "Thanks," he finally said, before he stumbled into his room, flopping face first on his bed. Reaching out blindly for a pillow, he hugged it to himself, wriggling to get comfortable before he promptly fell asleep again.

Mycroft watched this from the doorway with equal parts amusement and exasperation. He had a short-lived struggle with himself before he went forward. He simply couldn't walk away when Sherlock still had his full suit on, and his shoes, no less. Starting there, he removed them, placing them neatly by the door before he swung Sherlock's legs on to the bed. As he wrestled Sherlock's jacket off of his arms, Sherlock finally roused. "What's going on?" He asked blearily.

"Oh good, you're awake," Mycroft said drolly. He sat Sherlock up. "Stay awake for a while longer, please." He tossed the jacket at the foot of the bed, before quickly pouring a glass of water from his bedside pitcher. Thrusting it in his hands, he said, "Drink this."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Why?" He asked, even though he clearly didn't need an explanation as he started to drink. Mycroft watched him, poking him in the arm a few times to prevent him from drifting off, but eventually Sherlock finished the glass and handed it back to him.

"Can I sleep now?"

"No. You should change. Hold on." Mycroft went to his closet, rooting around before he found his pyjamas. He bore a set back to the bed before he found Sherlock had already fallen asleep again. He sighed, putting it back into the closet, before hanging his suit jacket out for dry cleaning. Looking back at Sherlock, he wondered if he should help to undress him further. Sherlock was in the habit of wearing tight suits and it certainly wouldn't be comfortable to sleep in. However, he didn't quite have the fortitude for it, and he fled Sherlock's room in shame at the direction his thoughts had taken.

As he made his own preparations for bed, he continued to castigate himself. Not only was he lusting after his brother, but the said brother was only 16. Well, 17 next month, his brain unhelpfully supplied. It hardly changed the fact that it was a wholly inappropriate desire to have.

Mycroft closed his eyes as the hot water pounded on his muscles. They had been fairly screaming at him ever since he had let Sherlock off his back. Though he had gotten fitter over the years, and certainly much more so since he had joined the SIS a year ago, it was still no easy task to cart a full-grown man up an incline for over ten minutes.

His mind inevitably wandered to the kiss he had with Sherlock. He wanted to muse about what could have brought it on, but even before he began he knew it was futile. He just didn't have enough facts to come to any sort of reliable deduction. Besides, he had no idea why he was himself attracted to Sherlock. All he knew was that he had been half-hard since entering the shower, and the thought that Sherlock wanted him as well had him lazily stroking himself to full hardness with a soapy hand.

He leaned back against a wall as he fantasised of Sherlock coming up behind him, reaching over and replacing Mycroft's hand with his, slowly stroking it, teasing him as Mycroft was even now teasing himself. His breath sped up as in a flash, the scene changes, with Sherlock now on his knees, holding on to his thighs as he sucked on his cock. Sherlock looked up at him with knowing eyes, pupils gone dark and teasing. They close as he gags while he tried to take more of Mycroft into his mouth. "Shall I teach you?" Mycroft murmured. Sherlock moaned, speeding up in an obvious declaration of _yes_. Placing a hand on his head, Mycroft commanded, "Slow down, and breathe through your nose." Mycroft cautiously thrust his hips as he felt Sherlock obey. Sherlock still gags, but only for a moment as he quickly overcomes it, his lips stretch wide as it bounces back and forth, each forward motion taking more of him in until his nose is pressed against his pubis. "Very good, Sherlock," he breathed. He imagines the sensation of Sherlock's throat swallowing around him, his hand now flying across his cock as he drew closer to the finish. Quickly, he changes the scene in his mind to reverse their positions, Sherlock's hand tight in his hair as his control breaks, fucking his mouth as he chases his orgasm. Mycroft groaned quietly as he came thinking of how Sherlock would moan and taste.

Breathing hard, Mycroft opened his eyes again to the empty shower stall, watching his come drain away. He lightly pounded his head against the wall as he let the water wash away what remained of the soap on his body, letting his breath come back to normal before he resumed his routine.

As he laid in bed, Mycroft felt himself stirring again, even if all he was thinking of was that he shouldn't have done that in the shower. He flipped over to lie on his belly, determined to ignore it. Once was wrong enough, not to mention the fact that it was hardly the first time. He tries to think of something, anything else. He thinks about bees, and goes through his mind palace to find all the facts he knows about them. Eventually, the tiny little wings he envisioned fluttering about lulled him into a restless sleep.

The next day, it comes as no surprise that he wakes a good two hours before Sherlock. He hears his miserable moaning from the library as Mummy lectures him about drinking for a full hour, and decides that it was enough punishment to warrant not giving his own lecture.

A while later, Sherlock shuffles into the room. Mycroft lifts a brow at the state of him – hair in a mess, dark circles under his eyes, and pyjamas skewed on his frame. Well, it seemed that he at least changed before coming down to his breakfast.

"You look absolutely dreadful, which I suppose is exactly as you deserve," he commented, looking keenly at Sherlock to see if he had remembered anything past his hangover.

"Thanks very much. Are you going to lecture me, too?"

"No, Mummy's done an admirable enough job. Have you learned your lesson?"

Sherlock shrugged. His gaze sharpened. "Depends."

In that instant, Mycroft knew that he hadn't forgotten. He blinked at Sherlock. "On what?" He dared to ask.

Sherlock doesn't make to reply immediately, instead going to the bookshelf behind him and retrieving a book. He came to stand behind Mycroft. Finally, he said, "On what the lesson was, and whether it was worth learning, of course." He traced the shell of Mycroft's ear lightly, lingering for a single moment before he left the room without another look.

Mycroft simply stared after him, dumbfounded. A terrifying, exhilarating, confusing path had just opened in front of him, and he had no idea where it led or what he should do about it. For the first time in his life, his mind just refused to begin to process it. He had a brief, wild thought to run screaming into the forest never to be seen again, but that would be outrageous. Instead, he decided to make like an ostrich and stick his head in the metaphorical sand, steadfastly commanding his eyes to move from left to right as he read about the philosophy of crime and punishment from Dostoyevsky.


	2. Chapter 2

It turned out that it was a good choice, because nothing else happens that weekend, or the next, or at any time during the remainder of his visit home. It might have helped that there wasn't occasion for Sherlock to drink to excess again, or to find themselves alone together at night. Before he knew it, Mycroft was in London again, and he gratefully put aside the entire business to focus on his job.

A month later, he returns for Sherlock's birthday celebration. After dinner, Father brings out honey flavoured whisky as a digestif. Mycroft balks at the label.

"Why in heaven's name have you brought this out, Father?"

"As you well know, Mycroft, we Holmes men start our whisky education at 17. Don't ask me why, I'm just passing it along. Now it's Sherlock's turn, and I found this curious little bottle at the shop last week."

"That's hardly proper whisky, Father. It's liable to ruin his palate before he has a chance to even develop one."

"Nonsense. Don't be crotchety, Mycroft, you're too young for it. Come, let's adjourned to the parlour."

Siger gleefully pours each of them a finger of whisky, before raising his glass. "To Sherlock. Happy birthday, my son." They all take a sip, before Mycroft, Siger, and Violet all simultaneously screwed up their faces. Sherlock merely blinks into his drink. "Is it supposed to stick to your tongue like that?" He stuck it out a few times.

"Absolutely not." Mycroft replied. "In fact, best not to think of this as a whisky at all but a bastardisation of dessert wine. Father, I am appalled."

"So am I, son, so am I. But on the bright side, Sherlock doesn't know any better yet so it's a perfect gift!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "In this moment, I am finally feeling like the favourite son."

"Mycroft." Violet chided. "Don't be silly. Of course your father and I don't have favourites."

"Then take it as my protest against this whisky." He finished his glass in one swig. "There. I'll never have to taste that again."

"You know, you can be awfully dramatic when you want to be, Mycroft Holmes." Violet laughed.

"I'll have you remember I made a marvellous Lady Bracknell."

"Arrogant, but accurate," Sherlock chimed in, sipping his whisky more gingerly.

"You really think so?"

"Yeah, you were great."

"Thank you." Mycroft gave a little bow. "So, birthday boy, you go to uni next year. Have you decided what you'll be studying yet?"

"Chemistry, I think, though also possibly geology or anthropology. But don't worry, I'll be applying to Oxbridge. I'm also considering UCL. I'd like to live in London."

Siger piped up. "Of course, you know we'd like for you to go to Cambridge. It's close enough to London, son. All three of us went there, including generations of Holmeses. I'm sure you'll feel right at home."

"That's exactly why I don't want to go. But I've already said I'll apply, so drop it, Father."

"Okay, okay." He lifted his palms in supplication. "No fighting tonight."

"How about a few hands of bridge? It's been an age since we last sat down to play." Violet smiled hopefully.

Everyone looked at Sherlock, who merely shrugged. "Fine."

"Great. But I'll agree only on condition that Father takes out something a little better than this honeyed whisky tripe. Surely you can't want Sherlock to learn about whisky from this stuff, Father. You taught me the basics of appreciating a good whisky when I turned 17. I think Sherlock deserves the same."

"Quite right, my boy, quite right. To tell you the truth, I just wanted an excuse to try it without committing to finish the whole bottle. If I introduce Sherlock to my whisky collection now, I don't think that bottle will ever be finished anyway," he said mournfully. "Still, it is your birthday, Sherlock, and you do deserve something a little better than this. Violet, if you would set up the table, I'll be with you momentarily."

As the night went on, Father continued to lecture about whiskies, pouring one after another until Violet stopped him. "Siger, I think that's quite enough. You can't expect Sherlock or Mycroft to have developed your level of alcohol tolerance just yet. Boys, are you feeling alright?"

Mycroft is a little tipsy; Sherlock is slumped in his chair. Admittedly the latter was something he tended to do anyway, but there was something a little different about it. They are sent to bed, Sherlock collecting his bottle of whisky to bring to his room with him.

Mycroft had just shed his coat and cufflinks when he heard a knock at his door. Opening it, he saw Sherlock, waving the bottle in his hand. "Let's get drunk, brother mine.'"

Mycroft's eyes crinkled in amusement. "You seem to already be almost there. Also, that whisky is abhorrent."

"Then be a good big brother and help me to finish it." Sherlock pushed his way in, unceremoniously depositing himself on Mycroft's bed. He shucked his shoes before leaning back against the headboard. He cradled the bottle between his legs, looking expectantly at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed before making his way to his closet, removing his belt before he joined Sherlock on the bed. Rolling up his sleeves, he said, "Mummy isn't going to be best pleased to find one or both of us nursing a hangover tomorrow."

"You can live with her disappointment for once in your life." Sherlock opened the bottle, taking a swig of it before handing it to Mycroft, who, after a brief pause, did the same.

He grimaced as he waited for the burn to work through his body, handing the bottle back before he spoke. "I should have asked earlier, but why do want to study chemistry? The sciences seem a little too theoretical and esoteric for your tastes."

Sherlock took another swig. "It has broader applicability than forensic science. And I do have esoteric interests, thank you very much."

"Forensic science? Were you planning on being a forensic tech, then?"

"Oh, no." Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Boring. I expect there would be way too much paperwork and regulations involved. Barely anyone likes bureaucracy as much as you do, brother mine."

"It's a necessary evil." Mycroft took another swig as he shook his head. "But I don't want to talk about my work. I think about it enough most of the time."

"Then what do you want to talk about?"

Mycroft took a moment, before he shrugged, and continued to drink. He made no protest when Sherlock shuffled closer to swing a leg over his. Finally, Sherlock took the bottle from his hands. "Are you trying to catch up, brother mine?" He asked teasingly.

"You did ask for help finishing it."

"And you've done admirably, but I think we can give that up as a futile cause." There was still almost quarter of the bottle left. Sherlock took another sip, before he grimaced and placed it on the side table. "You're right. That is quite atrocious."

Mycroft merely hummed his agreement, closing his eyes as the heat ran through his body to settle in his stomach. As the silence settled around them, he grew more aware first of his limbs, his elbows touching Sherlock's, the fine grain of his shirt under his hands where they rested, crossed just above his trousers, the weight of Sherlock's leg.

After a while, Sherlock broke the silence. "Do you ever think about that night?" He asked quietly.

"Sherlock…"

"Kiss me again, Mycroft."

Mycroft opened his eyes to find Sherlock's. In his current state, it was hard to deduce anything in them, except to observe that they were dilated, obscuring the beautiful colour of his irises. "I can't," he murmured.

"Why not?"

His eyes dipped to Sherlock's plush lips. "Because if I kiss you, then I'll touch you. And if I touch you, I wouldn't want to stop."

"I wouldn't want you to."

"You should. In fact, you should leave. Run, and keep running. You should hate me so I never get the chance to touch you. We can't do this."

"You first, then." Sherlock leaned over to hover his lips over Mycroft's, separated by a mere breath. "But I'm not going to make it easy on you," he murmured.

Mycroft's breathing grew ragged as he tried to resist it, resist _him_. All he needed to do was to remove himself from Sherlock, leave the room, to break this spell. Climb out of this bed as he had done a thousand times before. Hell, even just close his eyes and enter his mind palace. God only knew if he would be able to do it even if he was sober.

"Damn it, Sherlock," Mycroft cursed before he crushed his lips to Sherlock's in a desperate kiss. He hand flew up to grab his shirt, yanking him against him as the other flew into his hair to hold him in place. He plundered his mouth as he had dreamed of doing so many times before, uncaring of the sticky sweetness of the honeyed whisky as he licked and sucked and bit on his lips, his mouth, relishing in Sherlock's quiet moans, the grip on his own shoulders, the fingers busying themselves on the buttons of his shirt.

Sherlock wrenched himself away as he flung open Mycroft's shirt,throwing a leg across Mycroft to sit on his thighs. Mycroft looked at him darkly as he impatiently tugged Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers, inhaling sharply when his hands met smooth skin. He held on tight, moving him to line their straining erections together. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"No. Only a little." He ran his hands down Mycroft's chest, trailing one finger after another across his hard nipples before he grabbed at his shoulders, pulling himself to grinding their erections together. His eyes flew back to Mycroft's. "Teach me, Mycroft."

"Fuck," Mycroft groaned softly. He swiftly sat up to capture Sherlock's lips once more. He made quick work of Sherlock's shirt before throwing it open as well. He kneaded Sherlock's ass, showing him how to move against him as his mouth descended on a nipple, licking and biting at it.

"Ah!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his head back as he held Mycroft's to him.

"Shh," Mycroft admonished. "You have to be quiet." He looked up at Sherlock as he continued to encourage the movement of his hips.

Sherlock nodded, biting on his bottom lip as he rolled his hips into Mycroft. "Like this?" He whispered.

"Exactly like this." Mycroft's hands went to Sherlock's hips, his thumbs dipping below the waistband of Sherlock's trousers to slot themselves into the dips of his pubic bone. He watched Sherlock move against him for a few thrusts before Sherlock's hand came into view, working at his fly.

"I think this might be improved without pants."

"God, yes." Mycroft undid his own, making Sherlock kneel so that he could push them to his knees. Sherlock gave no such care, merely pushing his down far enough so that his cock and ballsack could hang out the front of his flies. Mycroft feasted his eyes, committing it to memory as Sherlock sat back down, slotting his cock next to Mycroft's. They were of comparable length, though Mycroft was thicker than Sherlock.

Sherlock watched as Mycroft licked his palm before holding them together, the underside of his cock now rubbing against Mycroft's as they were enclosed tightly in Mycroft's fist.

"Shit, Mycroft," Sherlock panted as he began to move in earnest again. He fisted his hand in Mycroft hair, tilting his head up. "Fuck, that's good."

Mycroft smirked. "I know. I feel it, too. This is even better." He stopped Sherlock from moving, before he started to move his hand up and down their joint lengths, faster and faster, rubbing their tips together for extra stimulation.

Sherlock captured Mycroft's lips again, moaning into the kiss as Mycroft worked them both into a frenzy. He started to moved his hips again as he gripped on to Mycroft's shoulders. "Mycroft, Mycroft," he said urgently.

"Yes, my dear."

"I'm about to come."

"Then come." Mycroft's free hand made it's way into Sherlock's hair. The moment he felt Sherlock reach his climax, he pulled him down to him, muffling his cry with a kiss.

Releasing him, he looked between them, at Sherlock's cum coating his hand, his cock. He let go of Sherlock's cock, watching his hand fly over his own, his movements coating it with a glossy sheen. It wasn't much longer before he was coming, too, throwing his head back with a grunt as he shot his load over himself. He felt Sherlock's hands move over him, trailing through the lines of cum on his body. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock's hand move towards his mouth before he sucked on his fingers, watching Mycroft right back.

His cock twitched again at the sight, and he lazily gave it a stroke. He watched Sherlock, and Sherlock watched him, as Sherlock lifted his hand off his cock, bringing it to his mouth to give it little kitten licks, sucking on his fingers, until he was clean of everything but Sherlock's saliva.

Sherlock released him, bending down to lick his tongue against Mycroft's. They entangled lazily together, Mycroft tasting only the faintest leftover traces of cum in his mouth as they kissed slow and deep, the initial frenzy dissipated in the wake of their orgasms. They looked at each other for a long while after, Sherlock playing casually with the hair at the nape of Mycroft's neck.

They shared a few more small, light kisses. "I should go," Sherlock said with a regretful look.

"Yes." Mycroft blinked, his gaze clearing. He moved Sherlock off his lap, averting his gaze. "You should go."

"Mycroft." Sherlock took Mycroft firmly by the chin. "You haven't done anything to me that I didn't want you to do."

"Nor I, but it doesn't make it right. You're my younger brother. I shouldn't have touched you. I shouldn't have wanted to touch you."

"Only if I didn't want it, too. I know it's illegal. But I can't see how it's immoral or make us bad people when both of us want it. You haven't forced me to do anything. I rather think I forced you instead."

Mycroft smiled wryly. "Maybe. But you couldn't have if I didn't already want you."

"Good, then." Sherlock climbed off the bed, grimacing as he tucked himself back into his pants. He quickly put himself somewhat back to rights before leaning back into Mycroft. "Don't regret this, Mycroft. I won't." He gave him a parting kiss.

"I'll try. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Mycroft." He closed the door quietly behind him. Mycroft simply sat where he was, slowly lowering his head to his hands. He listened to the humming of the pipes signalling a shower, the house falling silent again a few short minutes later. He managed to get out of bed for his own perfunctory shower, but when he returned, he was hit by the distinct smell of sweat and cum that still lingered in the room.

His only reaction was to reach into his suitcase for a pack of cigarettes, throwing open the windows to smoke into the silent, uncaring night.


	3. Chapter 3

It happens, again and again. It happens every time Mycroft comes home. Sometimes, all they do is kiss. Most times, they do more than kiss. Mycroft never initiates it, but it doesn't matter when he always gives in, when he hopes for it, when he comes to look forward to the increasingly skilled seductions of his brother. Over the next four years they do everything but fuck, and neither of them need any chemical assistance to act. Despite what Sherlock said the first night, the morning after is always chased by guilt: Mycroft for letting Sherlock tempt him again, and Sherlock for doing the tempting. 

They don't make any sort of commitment to each other besides the unspoken promise of having each other whenever they meet. They don't ever see each other outside of family gatherings; they never pick up the phone for a rendezvous, even though they are only an hour apart while Sherlock is at Cambridge. No, that would make it something quite different from what they both need it to be.

Sherlock sleeps with anyone that catches his fancy, but none of them make him feel like how he feels while he's with Mycroft, nor do they sustain his interest for much longer than a night or two. Mycroft is much the same, except that he is a little more discriminating, or a little more depraved, as he looks to fuck men who look like Sherlock. The one line he wouldn't cross no matter how many times Sherlock asks, no matter how Sherlock tries to goad him with jealousy. He hopes that it will make it easier on them, but really, it seems to only make them more promiscuous, makes him want Sherlock a little more. So every time he sees his brother, it gets harder to say no.

Frustrated, Mycroft gives Sherlock a Stradivarius when he graduates, before he disappears without a word for two years. He doesn't go to family gatherings anymore, and he doesn't call. He only speaks to his mother, when she calls him. Sherlock never does, and Mycroft is bitterly thankful for it. He throws himself into his work, and makes himself stop fucking raven-haired men. As he doesn't seem to be attracted to any other sort, he simply stops fucking entirely. He jumps at the chance to work with the CIA, flying across the Atlantic to put more distance between himself and his brother. He hears from his mother that Sherlock, unfocused, has decided to continue his studies with a Masters degree in chemistry instead of figuring out a career. At least it's some advancement, he tells her.

His stint across the pond is unexpectedly cut short. Not eight months in, he receives an unexpected phone call from his mother just as he is settling into bed.

"Hello, Mummy. Is everything alright?"

"Mycroft, come home. Sherlock's in hospital."

"What?" Mycroft shot up, looking around his room pointlessly. "What happened? Is he going to be alright?"

"The doctors say there's a good chance he will be fine. That he was found in time. He's…" Violet stopped to sniffle. "Mycroft, they say he's had a drug overdose. From cocaine." Her voice broke as she cried softly.

"I'll be on the first flight to London. Where is he?"

"They've brought him to Addenbrooke. Mycroft, he was at school. How could this happen?"

"I don't know, but you can be sure I'll find out. Sit tight, Mummy. I'll call you when I land."

By the time he arrives twelve hours later, Sherlock is awake, his parents worried and exhausted by his bedside. Mycroft feels a pang of guilt that it is the first time he has seen any of them in two years, especially Sherlock. Violet comes over to hug him, bursting into tears on his shoulder. He rubs her back soothingly.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly.

Mycroft glared at him. " _Cocaine_ , Sherlock? Have you lost your blasted mind?" He hissed back, before turning to his father. "What did the doctors say?"

"They say it was good that he was found in time and called the ambulance. He was in his house."

Mycroft gently pushed his mother off of him, sitting her down before he turned to punch the wall. The edges of his vision had gone red and hazy, and he glared at at Sherlock again even as Sherlock gave him a challenging stare. No doubt the person who called the ambulance was the same one who gave him the cocaine in the first place. Otherwise, how would they have gotten in? _Was_ it a him? Statistically likely. Was Sherlock fucking him? Irrelevant, he told himself. He shook his head roughly to try and clear it.

"Who found him? Is he here?" Mycroft asked darkly.

"No, we don't know who it was. They didn't come with Sherlock."

Mycroft visibly vibrated with anger, stuffing his fists in his pockets. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself. "Mummy. Father. I would like a few moments alone with Sherlock, please."

"I have nothing to say to you," Sherlock spat out, his eyes glowing with anger.

"Well, _I do_ , and you'll jolly well listen."

"Will you leave me alone if I do?"

A flash of hurt crossed Mycroft's face. "If that's what you wish."

"Fine. Mummy, Father, leave. Don't you know Mycroft is a very busy man and can't take too long remonstrating with his baby brother? England might fall if he dallies. Oh, wait, America as well, isn't it? Can't have that. They might end up wasting tea again."

"Sherlock." Violet admonished. "Be nicer to your brother. He's only worried for you. We all are. Honestly, what's happened to the two of you?" She looked between her sons, neither of which said anything but to stare coldly at each other. She sighed. "Come on, Siger. We'll be in the canteen grabbing a bite." She patted Mycroft on the arm as she left.

Neither of them said anything as the door clicked shut behind them. Finally, their footsteps faded away. "Who is he? The one that called."

"How should I know? I was out."

"Don't try that with me, Sherlock Holmes. It should be obvious to you as it is to me that it could only have been the person you were taking drugs with."

"Don't pretend you care now, Mycroft. You've been gone so long I'd almost forgotten I have a brother."

"I don't care?" Mycroft threw his arms out to the side as he paced the room. "How can you think that I don't care about you? After everything, all these years, can you be so stupid as to think that I've removed myself from your life because I don't care?"

"And how can _you_ be so stupid to think that leaving wouldn't have an impact on me? What, you just expected me to forget about everything because you'd left?" Sherlock shouted back, his fists clenched in his sheets.

Mycroft felt the words like a punch to his gut. His anger deflated as he wrapped his arms around himself. "No. You can't mean…all of this." He whispered, stricken.

"I didn't mean to overdose, if that's what you're asking. I must have calculated the concentration wrong. But the cocaine helped. When I'm high, I can forget, I can stop thinking, I can stop being me for just a moment."

"You're throwing your life away in the process. Surely nothing is worth that." Mycroft said incredulously.

"And on the flip side, nothing is worth anything to me. So what do I care? Live, die, it's all the same. In fact, dying may be easier."

"Dying is easier only in the sense that not existing is easier than existing. Of course it's easier. But easier isn't always preferable."

"Anything is preferable to this! To living with the sober, cold, unfair fucking reality that I'm in love with the one man I cannot have, and who will not have me."

Mycroft took a step back in shock. "You can't be."

"Then give me another explanation as to why you've been gone for two years and I still can't stop thinking about you. All the bloody time, Mycroft, even when I'm with somebody else. Especially when I'm with somebody else. I feel like I'm betraying you, and worse still, I feel like I'm betraying myself. I always, always hope that it will be different and it never is."

Mycroft looked hard at him, torn, before he sat himself down in the nearest chair. "Oh, god." He pressed his palms hard against his eyes. "Oh, god." His fingers flew into his hair, gripping it painfully. Still, the physical pain soothed the one in his chest. He sat there silently for several long minutes until he had no choice but to sniffle.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock immediately asked, confused.

Mycroft slowly lifted his head, looking at Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. "Mycroft, I don't understand." Sherlock looked at him desperately, trying and failing to deduce anything concrete. There were just too many possibilities.

"I–" Mycroft's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and tried again. "I've been the same. God, what have we done?"

"You– What?" Sherlock stared at him for a long time before he spoke again. "Why the hell did you run away?"

"What else could I do, Sherlock? I couldn't keep saying no to you forever. But I couldn't ask you to be mine, either. It just got harder every time I saw you to stop. I didn't want to stop. I wanted to do all these impossible things with you." Mycroft took a deep breath before he continued, quietly. "I told you to run, once. Do you remember? When we started this whole thing, when it became more than just a kiss, just a crush? You said, 'You first.' So I did."

Sherlock drew his brows together. "Come here, Mycroft." Mycroft looked at him, uncertain, before he got up and shuffled over to sit beside Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock took his hand in his, staring at it as his thumb traced circles. He lifted his eyes to Mycroft again. "Being yours isn't an impossible thing, Mycroft. Living without you is. I never wanted you to run from me. How could I, when I was always chasing after you? Stop saying no, brother mine. Ask me."

"You deserve more than to be in a relationship you'll always have to hide. You deserve more than an incestuous one with me."

"I'm not a child anymore. I can make my own choices."

"Yes, clearly." He looked around the hospital room, at the drip in Sherlock's arm. "Don't choose drugs again, Sherlock."

"That really depends on whether I have any incentive to listen to you, doesn't it?"

"Right now, I'm only asking as your older brother. You loved me as a brother once. Do it on the strength of that. Please."

Sherlock hand tightened around Mycroft as he struggled. "I want to. But I don't know that I can keep such a promise, Mycroft."

"Then promise to try. I'll be here for you."

He furrowed his brow for a moment more before he nodded his head. "I promise."

"Good. Thank you." He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's forehead. He closed another hand over Sherlock's. "Sherlock, I couldn't have asked you to be mine if I had to have the threat of drugs hanging over our relationship. To live in fear of losing you. So now…" He kissed the back of his hand. "Be mine, Sherlock, as I'll be yours. I have already been yours. There is no one else for me. Say yes only if you're absolutely certain there can be no one else for you, too."

"Yes, Mycroft. God, yes. I have never been surer of anything in my life."

And so, for the first time in their history, Mycroft kissed him without guilt or recrimination, but simply as a man in love with another.

An hour passed, then two, before Violet and Siger Holmes decided to head back to Sherlock's room. Violet thought that they couldn't have possibly done any physical harm to each other, though God only knew that Sherlock didn't need his fists to eviscerate someone. As they drew nearer, she took it as a good sign that they didn't hear any shouting going on. She pushed open the door to Sherlock's room before she stopped at the threshold in surprise. The scene in front of her was the last thing she expected to see: Mycroft was not only sharing Sherlock's hospital bed, but had his arms wrapped protectively around him. She shook her head as she noticed the boy hadn't even taken off his coat. Meanwhile, Sherlock had his face buried in his brother's chest, a hand formed into a tight fist on Mycroft's suit jacket, possessive even in his sleep. He had always been that way, even as a child, but what exactly had happened in the last two hours to warrant this?

Violet shushed her husband to stay quiet, opening the door wider to show him their children asleep together. She hunted around in her purse for a scrap piece of paper before she stole as quietly as possible into the room, writing a short note for them and leaving it on the small nightstand. With a last look at her boys, she snuck out again and took her husband's arm. "Let's go back to the hotel, Siger. Mycroft's looking after Sherlock now."


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft wakes up a couple of hours later, blinking blearily into the kind face of the nurse who was shaking him awake.

"Sir, I'm afraid you're going to have to get out of the bed. The patient needs all the rest he can get."

"I _was_ resting," Sherlock mumbled as he snuggled deeper into Mycroft's chest.

"I'm sure your partner is very comforting, Mr Holmes," she smiled sweetly, "but I'm going to have to insist. It's hospital regulations, you see. I can have a cot set up for you if you like, Mr…?"

"Um, Mike. You can call me Mike. And yes, that would be very good. Thank you." He disentangled himself from Sherlock, shaking the sleep off as he stood.

"Very well, Mike. I'll arrange for it to be set up. Now, Mr Holmes, will you sit up for me? I've just got some questions for you, and then you can have your dinner here."

As the nurse performs her checkup, Mycroft spied the note left by his mother.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I didn't want to disturb your sleep - you must have needed it after the long flight. Your father and I are staying at the Hilton. Do join us for dinner if you can. Ring me otherwise. Give my love to Sherlock._

_Love,_

_Mummy_

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was only just past seven. Silently, he passed Sherlock the note.

After a pause while Sherlock read, he said, "She'll definitely ask…"

"Yes."

"Do you know what you're going to say?"

Mycroft flicked his glance to the nurse. "Obfuscate. Dissemble. Try not to lie too much. What else could I say?" He shrugged. "Whether now or tomorrow, I'm going to have to talk to her."

"Then go. You might as well get a good meal out of it."

Mycroft sighed. "I suppose. I'll be back right after."

Sherlock nodded. "See you later, then. Bring me back some dessert."

"Mr Holmes, your stomach needs plain foods to settle."

"I feel like it wasn't appropriate for you to cut in just there, Nurse…Sally." He read her nameplate.

She blushed. "Yes, but I am right here."

"Sherlock, don't badger her for doing her job. I'll try my best to resist giving the patient whatever he wants, Nurse Sally."

"I'm sure you have a good time with that," she muttered, before her eyes grew wide. "Oh, crap. I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry."

Mycroft merely laughed as he made for the door. "You've just about the measure of it. But as I am required for dinner I shall leave you to suffer his wrath alone as punishment. Good evening." He winked at Sherlock before he left.

By the time he showed up at his parents' table, they had seemed to already come to the end of dinner, teacups in front of each person. Thankfully, the restaurant was accomodating enough to slide a chair in for him.

Mycroft simply ordered an entree for himself before he sent the waiter away. "Sherlock seems to be a little better from earlier today. The nap certainly helped. He's promised me to stay away from drugs now, though not one I'd ever have expected to extract from him." He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "Nevertheless."

"Do you know why? Or how?" Siger asked.

"He's a chemist. I'm sure it's one of his other graduate students being… entrepreneurial. He wouldn't be buying this stuff on the street. Frankly, I don't quite care as long as Sherlock stays away from drugs. I'm confident he'll keep his promise."

"But why on earth would he do such a thing? I thought we'd raised him better than that." Violet said. "He can be a handful, but never like this."

Mycroft played with the napkin on his lap before he answered. "Sherlock had his problems, only some of which I knew about. I didn't know how serious it was until he told me today, otherwise I might not have stayed away so long."

"Why did you? We've missed you, Mycroft." Violet took his hand.

Mycroft remained silent, uttering a quite thank you to the waiter as his food arrived. He didn't touch it, holding on to his mother's hand instead. "I'm sorry about that. Sherlock and I had… not so much a fight, as a difference of opinion, and neither of us was going to change our stance. I thought it might be better for him if I simply removed myself, but I failed to take the rest of his situation into account."

"Mycroft, avoidance is not the answer. Especially not with family. Whatever could have been so serious? You two were always so close. And you've obviously patched things up today."

"Yes, we have. But I can't tell you what it was about. That's a matter between Sherlock and I. It would suffice to know that it's been resolved."

"Well, that's good, then." Violet sighed. "We've been worried sick for the two of you."

Siger chimed in. "Eat your food before it gets cold, Mycroft." He waited for Mycroft to take a few bites before he continued. "Am I right in guessing that you gave in on this difference of opinion for the promise that he wouldn't go back to the drugs?"

Mycroft shook his head as he finished his bite. "No. I might not have many limits when it comes to Sherlock, but emotional blackmail is one of them." He thought as he took another bite. "I appealed to his better nature. He does have one, you know." He smiled wryly at them.

"You've always brought out the best in him, more than either of us. You've been a good older brother, Mycroft. Better than we ever dreamed."

Mycroft's brow creased, thinking about what he had asked Sherlock. Promised Sherlock. He rather doubted they would sing the same tune if they knew. "I'm not. But I've tried to be. I've really tried." He looked to his mother, silently begging forgiveness for a sin she didn't know he had committed, for what he would continue to commit.

Violet patted his hand. "I know, son. I don't know what you think you've done, and I don't think you're going to tell me. But a bad brother wouldn't travel for 12 hours to see his brother in hospital, nor would they take the effort to knock sense into him. They wouldn't do it as well as you."

"I know I was never as good to your Uncle Rudy." Siger piped up. "The sibling rivalry was strong with us. But you've only ever supported Sherlock. I'm sure you've done your best by him, Mycroft. That's all anybody could do."

"I hope so, Father." He sat in pensive silence for a while, waving his parents aside as they tried to get him to finish his food. Staring at it, he remembered that Sherlock had wanted dessert. He ordered something to go as his parents watched on in mild amusement.

"Sweet tooth, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's this time, not mine. I'll be returning to the hospital shortly, they've set up a cot for me. Will you visit tomorrow?"

"We thought we'd come after breakfast."

"Perfect. I'll need to go to my London apartment to grab a few things, but I should be back before you leave. After that, you can leave him to me. I'll keep him company. There's no need for all of us to be here."

"Are you sure? We're more than happy to share the load. We are Sherlock's parents, after all."

"It's no burden. Sherlock and I have a lot to catch up on. I'd prefer it."

"Well, if you're sure. We'll leave our room booked for you. I'm sure you'd need a break from the hospital cot."

"I'd be grateful simply for a good shower."

"Well, then, go and have one now." Violet slid over their room key. "There's nothing to be done for a change of clothes, but at least you'll feel somewhat fresher. We'll tell them to keep your dessert in the fridge."

"God, I should have thought of that. Thank you, Mummy."

Mycroft goes back to the hospital that night feeling magnitudes more human. The next morning, their parents come into Sherlock's room to find Mycroft and Sherlock sat side by side, talking animatedly as the two grown men comfortably squashed themselves into the bed made for one. Mycroft made his trip to London quick, packing only casual attire – which for him consisted of variations on dark jeans, jumpers, and simple button-downs. Before he left, he spotted his glasses on his bureau. Shrugging to himself, he tossed it on, before flying back to the hospital.

Sherlock immediately notices it when he arrives, his jaw dropping open slightly. "Why are you wearing _that_? You have perfect vision!" He points at the admittedly useless glasses.

Mycroft looked down at himself. "I think it rather matches everything else. Doesn't it?"

"Wow. I did't know you were _this_ gay."

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, an incredulous look on his face.

"Sherlock!" Violet scolded. "That's not very nice. Mycroft, ignore him. You look wonderful."

"Yes, to visit me in _hospital_. Whatever for?"

"Thank you, Mummy. Look good, feel good, brother mine. I need all the sartorial fortification I can get."

"And making me look worse than I really am by comparison. They'll never let me out of here now."

"Aww, baby brother's just jealous he doesn't get to look good too. That'll teach you to do drugs."

"I already promised to try and avoid it in the future." He crossed his arms, sulking.

"And so you did." After a beat, Mycroft took his glasses off, leaning over to carefully put it on Sherlock's face instead. "There. A little compensation for the horrendous gown you're wearing."

"They really do make you look a little healthier, Sherlock." Violet smiled approvingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he looked at his parents, who were also fashionably dressed. In fact, he didn't think he had ever seen them look mismatched. "What a vain bunch we are."

——

By the time Sherlock is discharged from hospital, he has overcome the mild withdrawal symptoms he suffered from the cocaine. Thankfully, his drug habit hadn't gone on for very long before his overdose, and so he was able to recover within the week. Mycroft stayed with him through it, shepherding him home before he left for America again to finish the last months of his contract.

Mycroft makes sure Sherlock has internet set up before he leaves, and they email back and forth for months until one morning, Sherlock opens his front door to find Mycroft grinning at him. "Can you accomodate a weary traveller for, say, a week?"

Sherlock grinned back, launching himself at Mycroft to hug him like a koala, long arms and legs wrapping around him. "God, yes. However long you'd like."

Mycroft laughs as he catches him. "I've missed you too, brother mine."

"You have no idea."

"Some idea. Now let me go so we can go inside."

Sherlock hops off, holding the door open for Mycroft as he wrangles his luggage, which still had baggage tags on them. "You've come straight from the airport?"

"I was already in a cab. Didn't see the point of going back to my apartment when you're here."

"You really have missed me."

"Of course I have. Have I been remiss in telling you how much? Come here."

They melted into one another as Mycroft kissed Sherlock slowly, his thumb lazily grazing over Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock had his hands under Mycroft's jacket, travelling all around his body, pulling Mycroft to him as he reassured himself that Mycroft was indeed real, and physical, and standing in his living room.

Mycroft kissed him softly all about the face before his head dropped to his shoulder, hugging Sherlock tightly to him. A long while later, he reluctantly released Sherlock as he stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I'm rather exhausted, and," he checked his watch, "I'm afraid my body thinks it's the middle of the night."

"Then have a rest. I'll join you for a lie in. You will of course, be sleeping with me."

Mycroft only hesitated for a moment. "Okay." He gave Sherlock another kiss before he lugged a duffel into his bedroom. Sherlock grinned in wry amusement at the Americanisation of Mycroft's speech, before he grabbed a book to while away the hours that Mycroft would sleep.

Mycroft finally surfaced almost five hours later, dimly noting that he had woken in the same position he had fallen asleep in. Apparently, he had slept, quite literally, like a corpse. He slowly blinked open his eyes with a huge yawn, only to be greeted with Sherlock's amused face. He shut his mouth ungracefully.

"Good morning. Good sleep?"

"I can't have slept for as long as that." He picked up his watch from the nightstand as Sherlock replied.

"No, but good afternoon doesn't seem an appropriate greeting for when one wakes up."

"True."

Sherlock huffed in amusement as he rolled to lie half on top of Mycroft, whose arm wrapped him close. "Do you realise that you've adopted the speaking style of lazy Americans?"

"I have not." Mycroft frowned at him.

"Oh, but you have. True. Okay. Sorry." Sherlock held up three fingers. "And that's just from what, half an hour?"

"I can only hope I'll adjust back."

" _One can only hope one adjusts back_." Sherlock did his best Mycroft imitation, lifting his brow at Mycroft.

"Yes, yes, point taken. You'd like me to be all posh again."

"I like you anyway." Sherlock stretched to meet Mycroft's lips, sliding not only his lips but his body against him.

Mycroft hummed low in his throat as he returned the kiss in equal measure. He twisted his body towards Sherlock, entangling their legs together even as his hand crept under Sherlock's shirt. He fingers counted the vertebrae of Sherlock's spine before it reached his ass. Mycroft smiled into the kiss as he found it to still curve perfectly to his palm, squeezing it gently.

"Like my ass, do you?" Sherlock murmured between kisses.

"Mm hmm." Mycroft pulled Sherlock on top of him so he could use both of his hands for the job. "Very much so."

"You could do much more than have your hands on it."

Mycroft's eyes darkened as his hands went into Sherlock's pants. He took a fistful in each hand as he spread Sherlock apart, then pushing them together again in a slow rhythm. "I have made you wait a long time."

"Seven years, Mycroft. It's inhumane." Sherlock gasped as Mycroft found his hole, brushing a finger lazily around it.

"I've been absolutely dreadful. I'm _sorry_." He continued to tease him as he ran his fingers through the valley of his cheeks before returning to his sweet spot.

"You can apologise in any damn version of English or language you like as long as you do something about it."

"I think we'll need some food first before I do." Sherlock lifted a brow, clearly communicating that there was something else entirely that Mycroft could eat. Mycroft grinned. "That'll hardly fuel me for more than a round. I don't intend to tire so quickly." Mycroft's hands paused as he sobered. "Besides, I haven't had sex for over two years, Sherlock. So you see, I hardly think once would be enough to thoroughly satisfy you."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "But why ever not?"

"I couldn't keep fucking men who looked like you if I was to have any hope of forgetting you. And I didn't want anyone else. Obviously, the celibacy was for nought anyway."

"I can report that I fucked anything with a semblance of a brain in their heads and it didn't work either, so we were both doomed to fail whatever we did. But I haven't had sex in…eight months, either."

Mycroft thought for a moment. "You replaced sex with cocaine?"

"Well, if a course of treatment isn't working, you'd change it. And before you say anything, yes, blah blah lecture. I know. I've promised."

"Alright. At least you didn't have sex while high, which really would be the height of recklessness."

"That's a low bar. Please continue touching me. Also, they tested me while I was in the hospital. I'm clean. Not that I really ever doubted it."

"I know, I peeked at your chart." Mycroft blushed faintly even as he rubbed Sherlock's ass cheeks in small circles. "My last annual came back clean too. Not that I've doubted it either."

"You know how to read a medical chart?"

"They teach you many things in MI6."

"Wow. I'm a Bond girl."

"If you were, I could love you and leave you." His hands left Sherlock's ass to roll them over. "But I love you and can't leave you." He kissed Sherlock softly.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around Mycroft's waist, running his fingers through Mycroft's hair as he kissed him. "I love you, too. So I shall feed you. But takeaway, because we're not leaving the flat."

They spend the next couple of hours sitting shoulder to shoulder, eating Chinese out of carton boxes while sharing a bottle of wine.

"I can't believe you live without wine glasses," Mycroft commented even as they finished off the wine by chugging it from the bottle. "Were you secretly raised by wild animals?"

"I broke all the crystal Mummy gave me when I moved in, and I never bothered to replace them. I live in college, Mycroft. Nobody cares. People would drink out of beakers."

"You have had a completely different experience from me. PPE* is a completely different beast."

"I'm shocked." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Aspiring politicians must keep squeaky clean. Boring."

"True for the most part, but there were some that didn't fit that mould. There was quite a talented music DJ in my class. He's now the resident at one of the hottest nightclubs in London."

Sherlock quirked a brow. "And you've kept up with his life because…?"

"I haven't kept up so much as heard through the grapevine." Mycroft paused for a moment. "I dated him for a few months so naturally, people think I'd be interested."

He narrowed his eyes. "Define 'few'."

"…Five." He held Sherlock tightly as he tried to wriggle away. "Don't get jealous, Sherlock. That was over ten years ago now."

"Why would you mention him?!"

"It was just the most outrageous example I could think of. Sherlock, I can't be sorry for having dated people before you. You must have had a few, too."

Sherlock crossed his arms and sulked. "I didn't."

"What?" Mycroft turned Sherlock towards him as he frowned. "What do you mean? I distinctly remember you saying you had some experience, that first night you finagled yourself into my bed."

"Physically, Mycroft. That's what you asked, and that's what I answered. I was a teenage boy full of hormones. I didn't need a date to get close to someone."

"God. And since?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few dates, yes. But never in the continuous tense. Everyone else is boring."

"Well, now I feel terrible."

"What for?"

"The vague sense that you might have had at least one boyfriend if not for me."

"Please. It's not as if we declared ourselves to be serious about anything between us then."

"It still was, wasn't it?" Mycroft asked softly.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I didn't know it, but yes." He climbed into Mycroft's lap, straddling him. "But what does it matter?"

"I'll never be able to give you that experience. To take you out on dates, as your boyfriend."

"So what? You already know me and who I am, more than anyone else. The rest of a date is just eating and possibly fucking. The first we've just done, and I am hoping for the second. There. Date."

"There could be more than that."

"Are they things that could be done without holding me or my hand?" Mycroft nodded. "Then we can still do it, can't we? It's no different to being gay and closeted."

"Have you ever been in the closet except to choose the tightest clothes known to man?"

"Not really, but it's not like I advertise it, either. Stop fretting, Mycroft. I will always have seven years' less experience than you. I don't care. Plenty of people have had only one relationship in their lives. I'll live. I only care that there are other men out there who could hold your interest for any extended period of time."

"Not since you, Sherlock. And all those other men pale in comparison."

"You see, the only difference is my prospective comparison versus your retrospective one." He leaned down to give Mycroft a kiss. "Take me to bed, Mycroft. There's one last point of comparison we've yet to make."

"No pressure," Mycroft said as he lifted Sherlock to carry him to the bedroom.

"None at all. We've been compatible in all other respects. This is simply a variant."

Mycroft set Sherlock down before he settled against him. "Compatible may be putting it lightly."

"See? I'm starting to think I'm the smart one."

"Do shut up, dear." He traded lazy kisses with Sherlock, letting their bodies melt into each other until Sherlock grew impatient and started to pluck at his buttons.

They quickly disrobed each other before Mycroft found a bottle of lube thrust into his hand. Mycroft's heart sped up. "I know this seems a fairly stupid question right now, but I still have to ask it. Are you sure?"

"Yes." Sherlock immediately replied. "You may do anything you like with me. I insist upon it. Are _you_ sure?"

Mycroft took a steadying breath as he looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Yes," he finally murmured.

"Thank God." Sherlock pulled him in for a quick kiss before he turned over. Mycroft wondered at the perfection of his back, licking soft kisses into his skin, down, down to where he wanted to be most. Sherlock stretched, chasing after more pleasure as Mycroft's tongue teased at the top of his crack.

Mycroft nudged Sherlock to his knees, before gripping onto his ass to expose him to his eyes. His inhibition left him as he gazed hungrily, replaced with the desire to lick a long stripe from his sac to his private entrance, his tongue curling around the rim, the taste of him sending a bolt of lust surging through his body.

Sherlock lost his mind bit by bit as Mycroft worked him to the edge of oblivion, muffling his cries into a pillow. Sherlock moaned and rocked back into him. "God– Mycroft– Please…"

"Greedy boy." Mycroft swatted his ass. Mercifully, Sherlock also heard the click of the lube bottle, feeling it drip down his crack. Mycroft made slow progress with a finger, his other hand playing with his balls the way he liked it, until Sherlock started to rock back into him again. He ground his head and whimpered, giving in to the maddening sensation of having Mycroft move so slowly inside of him. 

"Don't be so impatient, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a note of amusement in his voice. He slipped another finger into him, effectively putting paid to any retort he might have had. As he took his time to properly stretch him, he felt the lust curl through his body as Sherlock's walls clung so tightly to his fingers, it was only natural that he took the imaginative leap to how it would feel around some other part of him.

Finally he grew too impatient, swiftly withdrawing his fingers on cries of _more_. Sherlock let out a moan in protest even as he rocked his hips back. A moment later, Mycroft's cock was nudging at his hole.

"Ready?" Mycroft asked, voice strained.

"Please," was all the reply Sherlock could give. Without further hesitation Mycroft started to push into him, his hands gripping tightly at his hips. His progress was slow even after all the preparation he had done. They panted in unison as Mycroft finally pushed past the final ring of muscle, letting out a long moan as he waited for Sherlock to adjust.

"Fuck," he breathed, as he finally managed to open his eyes. He softened his grip on Sherlock as they travelled to his waist. "If I only knew, Sherlock."

"Mm. Fuck me, Mycroft."

Sherlock hissed as sank his fingers into him as he began to move, pulling Sherlock onto him in counterpoint to his thrusts. The pressure eased as Sherlock's body learned to accomodate Mycroft, and he started to rock into Mycroft. He released his grip on Sherlock, watching his ass bounce against him, giving him a swat every so often to enhance its effect until it was nice and gently pink.

He pushed Sherlock to his belly, holding on to his shoulders and fucking him hard and fast. Sherlock could only be pleasantly tortured by the slight, insufficient friction his cock was getting against the sheets.

Mycroft leaned down, kissing his shoulder as he worked his way to his neck, then to his ear. "I'm going to come soon, Sherlock. But don't worry, you know I'm good for more. How am I doing?"

"Hard and fast and rough's perfect," he managed to get out. "But I need your hand on me, too. And I'd like to ride you until you come again."

"Fuck, yes." Mycroft gave several more hard thrusts until he stilled as he came. He produced a strangled groan when Sherlock deliberately squeezed around him, and continued to do it until he withdrew.

"God, Sherlock," Mycroft panted. He fell to the bed with a slight push from Sherlock, who climbed over him. Sherlock sank down on him again. " _God. Sherlock._ "

"Yes. But you don't have to keep using my honorific." He started to move, moving up and down on Mycroft's cock, changing the angle until he gasped as he leaned back with his hands on Mycroft's legs. He lengthened his strokes as Mycroft watched him chase his pleasure, stroking him slowly, speeding up as he found the spot.

"Hands on the bed, Sherlock," he ordered as Sherlock's breath got laboured. Sherlock immediately obeyed. Mycroft planted his feet on the bed, and thrust his hips to meet Sherlock's, fucking him hard as his hand flew over Sherlock's cock. He fucked Sherlock mercilessly, Sherlock's own movements only assisted by gravity as Mycroft overwhelmed him with pleasure on all fronts. His orgasm raced up his spine, and he could only shout to the ceiling as he shot stream after stream onto Mycroft's chest, his vision whiting out in the intense pleasure Mycroft was wringing from him. He dimly registered Mycroft's own grunt, his thrusts continuing for a few strokes before they slowed to a stop.

Sherlock panted as his mind slowly floated back into his head, finally noticing the rapid beat of his heart, and the soreness of his wrists from supporting his weight. He gingerly brought them forward, looking blearily at Mycroft before he simply laid down on him, his head against Mycroft's heart, arms uselessly folded to Mycroft's shoulders in a weak imitation of an embrace. Mycroft dropped a hand to his lower back, his fingers moving in a minute caress, seemingly equally spent.

Save for Mycroft pulling himself out, neither of them moved for a long time. Even when their heartbeats slowed, the warmth of each other's bodies was too good to leave. Sherlock begrudgingly conceded to gravity at some point, sliding to put some of his weight on the mattress instead of Mycroft. He snuggled his head close, listening to Mycroft's steady breathing.

He nudged Mycroft gently. "So do you think that was the effect of delayed gratification, or just… us?"

Mycroft hummed. "Not enough information. Capital mistake to…theorise." He waved a hand around lazily before letting it fall back to his waist. Mycroft made a face. "Ugh."

"We should clean up. Get some flannels."

"Yes, but I think my sense of responsibility is somewhere over there." He pointed to a corner of the room.

"Don't expect me to do it."

"Please?" Mycroft cracked an eye open to look at him boyishly.

"The audacity of you, Mycroft Holmes. I don't think I could walk. I'll certainly be feeling this tomorrow."

Mycroft gave him a feline smirk before he mustered up the energy to roll them over. He kissed him lazily, a hand running up and down the length of his sides. "Alright, I'll go."

Sherlock watched him pad towards the bathroom in his full naked glory, admiring the swaying of his cute ass, and his intensely mussed hair. On Mycroft's return to the bedroom, he cleaned Sherlock gently, taking extra care between his legs before he threw the flannel to the same corner his sense of responsibility had fled.

Mycroft cuddled up behind Sherlock. "I think we passed that test with flying colours."

"Had anything less ever been expected of us?"

"Well put. Goodnight, Sherlock." He kissed his shoulder.

"Goodnight, brother mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PPE ≠ Personal Protective Equipment. I know we're in a pandemic, but this acronym was first introduced to me as 'philosophy, politics and economics', and it is one of the most prestigious undergraduate degrees you could get at Oxbridge and LSE. Not to mention sounding pompous as hell and completely suitable for Mycroft, I think!


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft spends a blissful, lazy week with Sherlock before he has to go back to London, his post-secondment break finished with the reality of work coming a-knocking. He drives up to Cambridge every weekend he can spare, and Sherlock travels to London instead when he can't. Over time, their things get mingled, two sets of toiletries in each apartment, and Mycroft occasionally moaning about some suit he's left at Sherlock's.

* * *

For Mycroft's 31st birthday, the family decides to celebrate by going out on the town in London for dinner and a concert.

They all converge on Mycroft's apartment before their evening plans, Sherlock having arrived some hours earlier to lunch with Mycroft following their usual London weekend routine. When their parents arrive, they chat happily over some champagne before Mycroft decided it was time to leave for their dinner reservations.

"Oh, but I must use the restroom before we leave. Mycroft?" Violet looked at her son expectantly.

He resisted the urge to fidget. "My guest restroom is presently out of order, but you may of course use my ensuite. It's just through the door there."

Violet missed the quick glance between the brothers as she got up. As she washes her hands, she notices with no small amount of curiosity a second toothbrush in the cup. Unable to help herself, shelooks keenly around the bathroom, and behind the mirror. Yes, there are definite signs of a second man being here regularly, what with two different sets of soaps in the shower, and a safety razor that Mycroft would never deign to use. Leaving the bathroom, she scans Mycroft's bedroom quickly, knowing not to take too long or to touch anything. Disappointingly, she finds no further concrete evidence. Many men rotate colognes, and Mycroft is just the type to have not one, but two high end bottles at his dresser. She had been intrigued by the duffel sat in front of his closet, but on closer look, she sees that it's only Sherlock's, his monogram clearly displayed on the side of it. She sighs as she leaves. If Mycroft did have a boyfriend, it mustn't be serious yet. But a mother could dream.

Conversation never falls flat around the Holmes dinner table, and being out in society doesn't change a thing. It flows naturally around the table, Sherlock always choosing the most outrageous positions imaginable on any given topic and valiantly defends it as the rest of the table spar with him. He looks decidedly bored as Mycroft and Father get into a heated debate on the American elections and the merits of forms of government, zoning out until Violet nudged at his elbow.

"What are your plans after graduating, Sherlock? You know, it's only a few months away."

"I don't know yet. I might see if MI6 wants me. I'd like someone to pay me to develop an untraceable poison. They've ruined thallium and there's really no other substitute for it. I've been thinking about this for two years now and haven't even come close to figuring it out. It's quite fascinating. Otherwise, I might do the same thing as a theoretical exercise, but that's not nearly as fun."

Violet stared at her youngest son for a long moment. "I suppose I should be grateful that you're volunteering your services to the government instead of the highest bidder, which would no doubt consist of the most terrifying psychopaths in the world. Whatever gave you the idea?"

Sherlock immediately thought of Mycroft's ex-hot young things. "Let's just say I'm channelling my destructive urges into more constructive avenues."

"I'm afraid to continue asking. Are you going to stay in Cambridge?"

"Why would I? There's nothing much there. I thought I'd move to London. Bit more excitement in the city."

Violet nodded. "Yes, I expected so. It's a great big playground for you, isn't it?" She patted him on the shoulder. "Do you come often?"

"When I can. Mycroft lets me stay whenever I want."

"Oh, but his apartment is much too small. That couch can hardly be comfortable to sleep on for a tall boy like you."

She turned around to Mycroft. "Mycroft, don't you think you've been in that one-bedroom for quite long enough? It's a perfect starter apartment, but you're getting more recognition at work now. Surely your residence should reflect that. You know, Holmes House is just sitting vacant. I'd always thought it was a lovely home, though I could never stand the city for very long. It's perfect for entertaining both professionally _and_ personally. Sherlock could take over your apartment." She lifted a brow at him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Very subtle, Mummy. I think we've rather moved on as a society that you don't have to treat me like a five-season debutante. While I quite agree with you otherwise, I can't yet afford to pay the upkeep on Holmes House without dipping too much into my trust income, not to mention the upfront costs of opening the place. Maybe in a couple of years."

"Oh, what a waste. It would have been the perfect arrangement. I suppose you'll have to go house-hunting then, Sherlock."

"Ugh." Sherlock made a face. He slid his eyes towards Mycroft. "Say, brother mine, how much more would you need to open Holmes House?"

Mycroft lifted a brow at him. "Why do you ask?"

"I've got my own trust income, which isn't much less than yours. As I spend less than you on new suits, I think it'll be sufficient. Of course, if I'm to do this, I'd want to stay there, too."

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea!" Violet exclaimed, though her sons were still having a silent conversation with their eyes. A common enough occurrence, she forged forward knowing they would still keep up. "Well, of course, it's up to the both of you, and you might think about the fact that living together as adults will be vastly different from living together as children. Sherlock might be too disruptive to your routine, Mycroft, you know how he runs helter-skelter all the time. And while there's plenty of space for the two of you to maintain a certain degree of privacy you'll still have to be mindful of the other. No unplanned dates at home for either of you." She wagged her finger playfully.

" _Mother_." Mycroft groaned. "I'll discuss it with Sherlock and we'll let you know of our decision."

"Good. Oh, isn't the idea nice, though, Siger?"

"Yes, it would be nice to having the next generation of young Holmeses living in the estate. I used to have a lot of fun as a young man about London." Siger raised his glass, winking at his wife.

* * *

There was never any doubt in Sherlock's mind that Mycroft would agree with the plan, and he gladly consented to Mycroft's condition that he allow him to manage the remainder of his trust income so that investments would make up for the shortfall. He knew that there were other details as well, but Sherlock had wilfully tuned out by that point, more interested in his mission to distract Mycroft from talking about responsible management of money with his mouth.

They eventually moved after Sherlock finished his classes, after the most boring two months of his life as Mycroft made him look at endless catalogues of furniture. He had insisted that Sherlock do the bulk of it, being an unemployed and not very busy student. Even using an interior designer to lighten the load, he still had to trawl through a ghastly amount of furniture that the Holmeses had accumulated over the generations, picking art pieces, dining tables, armchairs, bed frames, et cetera, et cetera… By the time he was done, he was ready to never move again, both physically and domestically.

Holding a joint graduation-slash-housewarming celebration a fortnight later, Mycroft busied himself in the kitchen as Sherlock took the task of showing his parents around. They hadn't gone to the expense of furnishing the entire house, for it really was intended for a large family to reside in, but they had made a small gym, two sitting rooms, a library/parlour combination, isolated working spaces for both Mycroft and Sherlock, two guest rooms, and finally, the individual bedrooms of Sherlock and Mycroft.

Of course, Sherlock didn't actually sleep in "his" room, but for appearances' sake, they had moved all of Sherlock's things from their shared bedroom into a spare suite on a separate floor. It was a front they obviously needed to have not only for their parents, but for whoever might visit either of them, as well, and they took their parents' visit now as a trial of their cover.

Not much was said of Sherlock's room, for even though it was a junior suite, it was rather plain and utilitarian, save for a stray comment that he might get more colour to liven it up a little. However, Siger looked around approvingly as they arrived in "Mycroft's" master suite, Violet with a gasp of surprise.

"Oh, how lovely. You see, Sherlock? This is how your room should be." She ran her hand over the love seat in front of the fireplace, before her eyes lifted to the white and gold wisps of the large antique canopy bed. She chuckled lightly as she noticed two dressers at opposite sides of the bed against the walls. "Though, maybe you're not quite as much a clotheshorse as your brother." She turned around to him. "Surely you must have known how he would furnish his room. Didn't you want the same for yourself?"

"A bedroom is for changing clothes and sleeping. I failed to see why I needed anything more than that."

Violet sighed. "You'll learn, son." She looked approvingly at the dark woods around the room, recognising a few of the pieces from her own sojourn through the family collection. "This room was simply made for two persons. Have you any idea if Mycroft is seeing someone, Sherlock? You must know."

Sherlock smirked in amusement. "Is this why you were so keen on us living together? I can't possibly be your spy on Mycroft, Mummy. That's certainly one way to get kicked out of the house, and I've only just got here."

"Nonsense! you have as much a right to the place as Mycroft does. Besides, he indulges you too much and would never do such a thing. Let Mummy reap some of the benefits for once."

"Nope. You can ask him yourself."

As conversation came to a lull over dinner, Violet took it as the perfect opportunity to badger Mycroft. "Mycroft, I must say, you've done a wonderful job with your room. You know, you're not getting any younger, and it'll be so much nicer to share it with someone else. It was made for it, and you've furnished it beautifully."

Mycroft groaned. "Not this again, Mummy. Change the subject. Now."

Siger leaned forward. "We only want to see you settled, Mycroft. You've done so well in your career, don't you think it's time to find someone?"

He gave his father a betrayed look. "I'm not lonely, Father."

"Of course, of course. But there's more to life than work. See, your mother took time off to have you boys, which I am very grateful for, darling. Now look at the two of you, the pride of our lives. We only want that for you."

Sherlock reached out under the table to stroke Mycroft's calf with his foot soothingly as he was attacked from both sides. Abruptly, it stops, when Violet turns the focus to him.

"What about you, Sherlock? Any potential suitors?"

"Couldn't I be the one doing the courting?"

"Well, are you?"

"No, no _potential_ suitors, Mummy. Though I'm sure there are many eligible men in London." Sherlock placed a subtle emphasis on the word as a private joke to Mycroft, who hid a smile behind his wine glass. Thankfully, his parents had the grace not to have picked it up.

Violet sighed. "Honestly, a mother ought to be worried that between the two of you, you have never brought home a boyfriend. I just don't understand it."

Sherlock and Mycroft simply shrugged, draining their glasses in unison.

Later that night, Violet knocks on Mycroft's bedroom door. After a few seconds, it opens to reveal Sherlock behind it, dressed in a comfortable robe over simple pyjama pants. "Oh. I was looking for Mycroft," she said in surprise.

"Yes, I know, seeing as you're at his bedroom door. Come in. He's just in the shower." There were two glasses of half-consumed whisky on the table in front of the fire, the bar cabinet in the corner, open. "Would you like a drink?"

"Thank you, whatever you're having is fine."

Sherlock nodded, pointing her towards the couch as he went to make her drink. The shower turned off as he handed the glass to her. Going to the door of the bathroom, he knocked.

"Sherlock?" Came the dimly muffled voice of Mycroft.

"Yes, it's me. Mummy's here."

Silence reigned for a moment before Mycroft spoke again. "Could you get my pyjamas, please?"

"Yup. Be right back."

Violet watched, sipping her drink, as Sherlock went unerringly to a dresser to retrieve a set of pyjamas before returning to the bathroom door. Knocking again, he thrust the clothes through when the door cracked open.

Sherlock came back to sit on the rug in front of the fire, facing the couch. As he took a sip of his drink, she observed, "You're very comfortable in here."

"Yes, well, we have been talking a lot about the house. The chat's become something of a pre-bedtime routine."

Violet merely nodded, sipping at her drink. They sat in silence until Mycroft emerged from the bathroom, rubbing at his hair with a small towel. "Mummy." He greeted her, before he sat next to her on the couch. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came to apologise for badgering you at dinner, but I think I have some more motherly advice to give. For the both of you. Would you spare your mother the indulgence?"

Mycroft sighed, locking his gaze with Sherlock briefly before he picked up his own glass. "If you must, Mummy."

Violet took Mycroft's free hand in her own. "You know, I'm very happy that my boys have such a good relationship. When Sherlock had his little episode I didn't think you would one day be cohabiting peacefully, and yet here you are." She gave them a small smile. "But I'm concerned for you. The two of you already spend so much time together by virtue of living together, and if what Sherlock indicates is true, many dinners and nights too. You're handsome, smart young men, my boys. Maybe it's a mother's bias, but I think you make a pair of dashing suitors. You should go out more, try and find someone. It's good that you have a close relationship, and I hope you'll keep looking out for each other for the rest of your lives, but I want more for the two of you than that."

The crackle of the fire filled the room as the brothers thought, both trying to find a way past the conversation without lying too much. Finally, Sherlock spoke. "Quite simply, Mummy, I find people dull, and making friends hard. Even when I was at Cambridge the level of intelligence in the population wasn't sufficient to keep my interest in them for much more than a night."

" _Sherlock_." Two voices from the couch said admonishingly.

"What? You asked." He tipped his head back, finishing the rest of his glass in one go. "There is simply no one that could keep up with me that is also agreeable on a personal level. Mycroft's set a high bar."

"Oh, Sherlock, It's hardly appropriate to use Mycroft as a comparison in such a situation."

"Why not? Should I not look for the same level of comfort in a life partner? Can I not want to be myself with them? It's exhausting to have to explain myself at every turn. Unfortunately I find myself doing just that. It's not how I want to live, and I'll not settle."

Violet turned to her older son. "And you, Mycroft?"

He swirled the drink around in his glass for a moment before responding. "Of the two of us, you know I'm the smarter one. Having heard what he's said, can you imagine what real people are like to me? I'm living in a world of goldfish." He smiled wryly. "I'm sorry, Mummy. You may have birthed two geniuses, but intelligence has its pitfalls, as well."

Violet sighed. "I hope you meet someone that makes you change your mind. You know, your father's bright, but still an ordinary man. I fell in love with him not in spite of it, but because of it. There is a certain balance that can be found between genius and wisdom. I know he's certainly made me a better person for having known him." She patted Mycroft's hand as she released it. "Do think about it, boys. I think I'll go to bed now that I've said my piece."

The brothers stood up to see her to the door. "Yes, Mummy, we will. Goodnight." Mycroft kissed her on the cheek, before Sherlock did the same.

Sherlock remained at the door as he shut it behind her, while Mycroft made a beeline to his glass, drowning it before pouring himself another. He took his seat on the couch again, a hand rubbing at his temples. Neither of them moved or spoke for a while, until Mycroft felt Sherlock's arms embrace his shoulders from behind. He reached up to hold them to him, the contact comforting.

"Do you think she's right? After all, she seems to be happy with Father." Mycroft whispered.

"Of course she isn't, brother mine. I might remind you that we both tried and failed at it."

"Maybe if we had stuck it out we would have found someone else."

"It's too late for what ifs and maybes. I'm already in love with _you_."

"We'll have to have that conversation ad infinitum for the rest of our lives."

"What do I care? As long as you accept it, I can live with it. The hiding, the lying, all of it."

Mycroft let out a slow breath. He tipped his head back, looking at Sherlock upside down. "I don't know if you're brave or simply foolhardy."

"Can't I be both?" He kissed Mycroft's cheek. "Now, come to bed so you can kiss me properly." Sherlock straightened, his hands resting lightly on Mycroft's shoulders.

Mycroft stood and turned around. "You can't mean to sleep here tonight."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mummy already knows I'm in here. We'll just lock the door and claim I fell asleep on the couch if she asks. It will be fine."

"And if she asks about the locked door?"

"One might ask in return why she would be trying to invade your privacy in the first place." Sherlock huffed as Mycroft crossed his arms. "Alright, fine, I'll sleep in the other room tonight. But I still want kisses."

Mycroft kissed him slowly, tenderly, holding him as though he was the most precious and fragile thing in the world. He kissed him deeply, promise and apology rolled into the one act, as his thumbs swiped over his cheeks. Separating, he rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "I love you," he whispered. "Now, go."


	6. Chapter 6

Something had been brewing in the back of Violet's mind, but when her sons came to visit that Christmas, she knew.

She had looked up from preparing tea to see Mycroft and Sherlock framed in a window, Sherlock standing in front of his brother as they both looked out to the snow drifting down outside. Sherlock had just whispered something that made Mycroft laugh, his face splitting into a rare grin as he made his own comment. As he stepped away, it seemed that one of his hands belatedly followed the rest of him. A table obscured her vision, but it was as though Sherlock had retained his hold on it.

She averted her eyes back to her tea set, slowly putting the items together on a tray as her mind whirled. Could it be interpreted any other way than what it seemed? They were very close, after all, and though she wouldn't admit it to anyone else, both fairly eccentric individuals in their own right. Maybe this was just how they were.

But when she made her way towards them a few minutes later, she knew that her initial conclusion was right. She knew by the indulgent smile Mycroft wore while Sherlock talked animatedly next to him. She knew when it left Mycroft's face as he withdrew his arm from the back of the couch after he noticed her entering the room. She knew by the way Sherlock moved away ever so slightly from Mycroft when he sat back after pouring his tea.

She knew, but she didn't know what to think. Oh, she knew what she _should_ think, of course, but these were her boys. Heaven only knew how long this had been going on for, and it was rather like smoking, wasn't it? All smokers knew it was bad for them, but it didn't stop them from doing it. Similarly, she didn't think merely telling them it was wrong would have any great effect on the situation besides harming to her relationship with them.

So she resolved to watch them together for the rest of the week. They were due to stay until New Year's, and she was determined to come up with what she should say to them before they left. The more she watched, the more she noticed. How they ran off into the woods, coming home dishevelled and dirty as when they were children. Somehow she rather doubted that they had been digging through the snow to look for frozen animal carcasses. She shuddered at the memory before pushing it aside.

On another day she watched Sherlock pick a snowball fight, almost losing before he tackled Mycroft behind a dip. Mycroft stood first, a hand reached out to help Sherlock up, before he wrapped his arm tightly around him when Sherlock swayed as he got up. They trekked back to the house with their arms around each other, separating only when they got closer to the house.

She watched as they sat quietly in the library together, Sherlock reclining on the couch with his feet in Mycroft's lap, both just existing in each other's space as they read their books. When she peeked again a while later, Sherlock's head had taken the place of his feet, his book resting atop Mycroft's arm across his chest, the pair soundly asleep.

She noticed every time Mycroft swivelled his head towards Sherlock as they sat around the table, even when Sherlock hadn't said a word. As she didn't believe in telepathic communication, she could only conclude that the area under the table was a fairly busy place.

And all through the week, she watched as they maintained physical contact in small ways: on the back of the hand, on the arm, by the back of their heads. Individually, they were innocuous enough if one wasn't looking for a the pattern, or the small smile of the recipient every time it happened. It was as though neither of them could stand to be apart from the other for too long, she thought wryly.

If Sherlock and Mycroft had been paying attention to anything besides each other, they might have noticed their mother watching. As it was, they were genuinely confused as to why conversation had been stilted all through dinner, and now through to their customary drinks. Tentatively, Mycroft ventured, "Mummy? Father? Is something the matter?"

Violet and Siger looked at each other, a silent battle of wills as to who would speak on their collective behalf. Violet sighed as her husband waved a hand, clearly indicating that she was to speak. She looked back at her sons, a nervous laugh escaping from her. "Well, I don't quite know how to start this conversation." She looked between their apprehensive faces as she sobered. "I suppose I want to ask if there's anything the two of you would like to tell us."

They may as well have been twins for the synchronised blinks they gave her, before they looked at each other for a moment. "No, Mummy, I don't believe so," Mycroft began, slowly. "What is this about?"

Violet twirled her glass around in her hand. "I might have expected that to be the answer. You see, boys, I've been watching you this week, and I don't think you've noticed, which really, says a lot in itself. I suppose what I'm trying to ask is if you two are… together? That is to say, a couple?" At their looks of alarm, she hurriedly added, "You don't have to worry if the answer is yes. I've spoken with your father and neither of you will be in trouble in any way. Not from us, not right now. We just want to know the truth."

"What?" Sherlock blanched. His hand tightened on the back of the couch before he went around it to sit down heavily. He didn't think his legs would have supported him for much longer. He hadn't realised he had stuck himself to Mycroft's side until Mycroft turned to him with a shocked look, his eyes then trailing to where their thighs were now touching.

Mycroft faced forward again, his eyes desperately tracing over the patterns on the rug. He moved deliberately to place his glass down gently on the table beside him, before linking his fingers together. He looked at Sherlock again, who looked back at him helplessly. He tilted up a corner of his lips for a moment, before it dropped, taking a steadying breath as he turned to face his mother. "Yes. Sherlock and I are together. We have been, for a few years now."

It was one thing to think you know something, and quite another to hear it confirmed. "Since when?"

"Since Sherlock's overdose."

"So when I saw you two in the hospital…"

"Yes. I didn't lie to you, Mummy. We did have a difference of opinion that was resolved that day."

"You refused to tell me what it was about, though I think I'm getting the general outline."

"It was…" Mycroft laughed in disbelief as he rubbed at his face. "I don't think I can say this. I have never envisioned having this conversation."

It was Sherlock's turn to take a deep breath as he got his words together. "I'll say it, then. You remember that Mycroft had virtually disappeared from our lives for two years preceding that. He was trying to do the good thing, the honourable thing, to try and have us be a little more normal than we actually are. He was running away from me. From this. Needless to say, it didn't work, for either of us." He reached out to gentle knead at Mycroft's neck.

So this has been going on for a lot longer, then? Oh, God, please tell me nothing happened when you a child, Sherlock."

"No!" The both of them shouted. "God, Mummy. I may be in love with my own brother but that does _not_ make me a pedophile as well." Mycroft added, burying his head in his hands again.

"It started, I think, at great-aunt Petunia's 90th birthday party. Mycroft had come outside to find me in drunk rumination under the stars. No doubt assisted by wine, I got up the courage to kiss him. Nothing else happened, except that the next day I wanted to do it again. Or possibly it might have started a few months later. It really depends on how you look at it."

Violet furrowed her brow as she thought back, doing the calculations in her head. "You were barely 17 then."

"Yes, and old enough to know what I wanted. Old enough to know that it was wrong, but by then I think I had been harbouring a crush for almost a year."

"Really? A year?" Mycroft turned to look at him in surprise.

Sherlock lifted a brow at him. "What, you thought the starlight made you so phenomenally attractive that the thought to kiss you spontaneously sprang into my mind?"

Mycroft blushed. "I didn't know what to think, really. It rather caught me by surprise. You have always been the impetuous one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Even impetuosity has its limits, brother dear."

Violet watched as Mycroft shot him a shy smile. She let them have a moment before she spoke again. "And what about you, Mycroft?"

The smile dropped away as he turned to face her again. "Well, obviously I had to have felt something for him or I wouldn't have entertained a second thought about it. It was probably at about the same time as Sherlock, actually." He furrowed his brow as he turned to Sherlock. "Did you know?"

"No. If I had known, I'd probably have acted a lot sooner."

Mycroft exhaled a sigh of relief. "Well, that's good, then. Though I suppose we can't be sure that you didn't pick it up subconsciously anyway."

"Or maybe you picked it up from me. As I've repeatedly told you, it's no use going over it. Whatever happened, I've made my own choices, and I don't regret them." He lifted his eyes to his parents. "Did you have any other questions? Otherwise, I think I'd like to be alone with Mycroft."

After a beat, Violet simply gave them a small smile as she shook her head. "Siger?" She nudged.

He looked at her blankly, before his gaze flickered between his sons. "Do you two… Your rooms in the house…?" he trailed off.

Mycroft choked on nothing, while Sherlock blinked. "Er. Yes. What you saw _was_ , nominally, my room, in the sense that no one besides me will ever use it, and also where I keep some of my things. But what I told you was Mycroft's room is more accurately described as, well, _our_ room." Sherlock turned towards his mother. "Your mathematician's instinct hasn't yet failed you, Mummy. You felt the room was made to be shared, and it was, because we had furnished it that way."

Siger nodded before he spoke slowly. "Thank you for your honesty. I think I've heard quite enough to understand. It's been rather an evening and I find myself in need of a few more drinks to process it all. So, you can go." He paused, his gaze travelling around the occupants of the room again before it fumbled to a spot on the wall behind his sons. "Just…no funny business in the house, you understand?"

Mycroft blushed furiously. "No, of course not, Father."

Siger grunted as he got up from his seat, dismissing the room as he went to the bar. Sherlock watched him for a moment before he, too, stood up. He extended a hand to Mycroft. "Come on, brother mine. Let's go for a walk."

His gaze flew to his mother before he took Sherlock's hand. "Yes, alright." He went over to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mummy. And… thank you."

She nodded, patting him on the cheek. "Don't worry. Father will come around. Take good care of your brother."

"Always," he promised her. He moved aside to let Sherlock bid her goodnight as well.

As Sherlock kissed her on the cheek, Violet repeated the same command. "You too, Sherlock. Take good care of Mycroft, you understand? Don't let him worry about you. He's got enough to worry about."

"I know, Mummy. I promise." He straightened, squeezing on Mycroft's hand to indicate that he was done. At the doorway, they bid their father a goodnight as well, who gave them a wave in return.

They put on their coats, gloves, and scarves, trekking outside together in silence. Not ten feet from the garden gate, Mycroft halted in his tracks to press his hands to his face, taking big gulps of the freezing night air. Still, it wasn't enough to stop his mind from running around in futile, endless circles.

"Hey, hey, hey. Mycroft." Sherlock wrenched Mycroft's hands away from his face. They fell uselessly to his side as Mycroft stared at him miserably. Sherlock cradled his head between his hands, swiping away at his tears. "It's over now. It's going to be alright, brother mine."

Mycroft sought both strength and solace from Sherlock and his unwavering gaze. "How are you so calm?"

"I just need you, Mycroft. Everything else is merely detail."

"You have me. All of me."

"I know. And you do, too." Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, but found himself stopped by Mycroft's firm grip on his arms.

"What are you doing? Not here, Sherlock."

"They already know. If they're watching, let them watch and see how right we are for each other." Sherlock leaned in again. This time, Mycroft let him. Sherlock kissed him tenderly at first, running his hand over his hair, before he took a grip on his shoulders to pull Mycroft to him more insistently.

Mycroft had no choice but to wrap his arms around Sherlock to remain standing as he was pulled off balance, the skill with which Sherlock was kissing him making the simple task even harder. As they separated, Mycroft couldn't help but laugh as he realised he had bent Sherlock backward in the cheesiest of romcom poses, completely unintentionally. Sherlock laughed with him as he drew them upright again and resisted the urge to look back at the house.

"Don't tell me if you see them watching," he said, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "It is all just detail."

* * *

That night, they gave up the pretence of sleeping in separate bedrooms. Sherlock snuck into Mycroft's room as usual, but he had foregone the early morning alarm to sneak back into his own bed. As such, when they awoke, the sun was already high in the sky, light streaming into their faces.

Mycroft groaned as he used his arm to shield his eyes. Realising what he was doing, he shot upright and looked around frantically. Sherlock's own groan was muffled as the covers were over his head, presumably for the same purpose as his arm had served earlier.

He looked over at the clock on his nightstand. Five past ten?! He ripped the blanket away from Sherlock's head before he sprang out of bed. "Get up," he ordered. "It's way past breakfast time."

Sherlock was still in bed when he came back from the bathroom, now on his belly with his face in the pillow to avoid the morning light. Mycroft swatted at his butt. "Up, lazybones." He moved to his closet, dressing hurriedly.

Mycroft sighed when he finally turned back around to find that Sherlock still hadn't moved. He knelt next to the bed, running his fingers through his soft curls slowly before he pressed a kiss to it. "Alright," he whispered. "Get a little more sleep if you like."

Mycroft bumped into his father as he made his way to the kitchen. "Ah, Mycroft. Finally up, I see."

"Yes, Father. My apologies for missing breakfast. I'd forgotten to set the alarm."

His father waved it aside. "We've had a late morning ourselves. Your mother's still in the kitchen."

"I'll join her, then. See you later."

Violet turned towards him as he entered the kitchen. "Oh, good morning, Mycroft. I tried to wake you earlier, but obviously you hadn't heard me. We've already had breakfast."

"Good morning. My apologies. I have no idea how I could have slept in so late, alarm or no. Haven't done so in ages."

"Then it's well-deserved, I say." She reached to pull down a tea set. "And Sherlock?" She gave him a cheeky smile.

Mycroft blushed before he forged ahead. "He refuses to get out of bed. I tried. I don't know what sort of quality of sleep he'll be getting with the sun in his face, but there you have it."

"It would have been fine if you hadn't cruelly torn the blanket from me. Good morning, Mummy. More tea for me?"

Mycroft looked at him in surprise as he sat down next to him. "I thought you were still asleep."

"I was waiting for you to ask nicely."

"When has _that_ ever worked?!" Mycroft rolled his eyes as their mother put down a tray filled with tea, scones, and spreads in front of them. "Just admit you like being difficult."

Sherlock merely stuck his tongue out at him before he reached for his breakfast.

"Good morning, Sherlock. Is this your definition of taking care of your brother?" Violet arched a brow at him as she joined them with a cup of tea.

"Yes. Mycroft needs a little levity in his life or he'll keel over at his desk before he turns 40, which, you know, isn't that far off."

"I'm only 31. At least let me get into my mid-thirties before you pronounce me to be on the verge of death. Besides, I'm on holiday, brother mine. I don't need any more levity."

"Well, one must be consistent." Sherlock popped a piece of scone in his mouth, his eyes laughing.

Violet's eyes flickered between them as she hid a smile behind her teacup. Yes, it was a good decision to support them. Otherwise, she would have missed seeing how happy her boys were. Apropos of nothing, she asked, "So, what are your plans for this fine New Year's Eve?"

* * *

As it approached midnight, they all gathered on the porch with glasses of champagne in hand, waiting for the village fireworks to start. The TV was turned on in the background so they could hear when the countdown began. Their parents settled on the bench, while Mycroft was already installed at the railing, looking out at the stars.

Sherlock clinked his glass to Mycroft's as he joined him. "Any new year's resolutions, brother mine?"

Mycroft quirked a brow at him. "I would have expected you to be the last person to ask me that. Isn't it all just an arbitrary commemoration of the passage of time?"

"The fireworks obviously makes all the difference. Anyway, I might not care about it, but you do. I'm asking for the same reason I let you plan our anniversaries. So?"

Mycroft's eyes twinkled as he clinked his glass to Sherlock's. "I do have one," he admitted, "though I'm not sure whether it can properly be called a resolution so much as a life goal."

"What is it, then?"

Mycroft leaned in to whisper directly into Sherlock's ear. "It's to make you happy, of course. There may be days where you'll be upset with me, but in the main, I'd like to have less of those."

"You already do, Mycroft."

"And my resolution is to keep it that way. So you see, it's not a proper New Year's resolution, in the sense that those usually involve doing something one wasn't doing before, or in the contrapositive."

"Well, you can start by resolving not to pull the blanket from my head."

"Are you still going on about that?" Mycroft laughed. "Yes, I resolve to wake you with nice words instead of forcing the cruel, cruel sunlight on your face. Unless there's an emergency."

"I accept your terms." He raised his glass to Mycroft, taking a sip from it as Violet took her husband's hand in hers. He held on, smiling faintly at her.

Before long, they all heard the tinny sounds of the TV starting the countdown to the new year. _Ten, nine, eight_ … Violet and Siger stood up to join their sons, each of them holding their glasses close together in preparation.

 _Six, five, four_ … Violet hooked her arm around Mycroft's, while Siger slung his around Sherlock's shoulders. They all smiled at each other.

 _Two, one!_ "Happy new year!" They exclaimed in unison, clinking their glasses together as fireworks burst out in the distance, and taking a sip before they each exchanged kisses on the cheek with each other. Violet reached out for her husband, kissing him as she said, "Happy new year, honey." "Happy new year, darling." They turned towards Mycroft and Sherlock, the latter wearing a wistful smile on face as Mycroft kissed the back of his hand.

Violet took pity on them. "That'll hardly cut it, Mycroft," she said, as Mycroft looked at her in surprise.

After a moment where nobody moved, Siger cleared his throat. "Well, you heard your mother. We'll just… be over here. Watching the fireworks." He pulled his wife to the side, so they actually _could_ watch the fireworks, giving Mycroft and Sherlock a semblance of privacy.

Mycroft watched his parents move away with bewilderment, before he turned back to Sherlock. "Well, I suppose…"

"Oh, don't be such a ninny, Mycroft," Sherlock huffed. He grabbed the front of Mycroft's jacket to kiss him with a loud smack. "There. Happy new year and all that."

Mycroft grabbed him around the waist before he could move away, kissing him more softly. He resolved to forget that his parents were mere feet away, and continued to kiss Sherlock until he felt the irritation drain away from his body. With a final kiss to his cheek, he said, "Happy new year, brother mine."

The sound of polite clapping made Mycroft jerk his head up, blushing furiously as his mother stopped clapping with a sheepish look. He looked to his father, who simply shrugged. "The fireworks ended about ten seconds ago," he supplied, somewhat unhelpfully.

Sherlock dropped his head to Mycroft's shoulder, his chest shaking with repressed laughter.

"Well, that's us done for tonight, I think," Violet declared after a moment, moving towards the open door with her husband trailing behind her. "Goodnight, boys."

"Goodnight, Mummy," they said in unison, Sherlock merely tilting his head to the side.

As Siger passed them, he patted Mycroft on the back. "Well done, son."

Mycroft choked, horrified. "Oh, God. Please never say that again in this particular context."

"I only meant in handling one of Sherlock's strops, not… the other thing." Siger stuttered. "Though I suppose one contributed to the other. I'm not making it any better, am I?" Mycroft shook his head as he sighed. "You know what I'm driving at. Goodnight, Mycroft. Sherlock."

"Thank you, Father," Mycroft murmured as his arm tightened around Sherlock.

"I couldn't be so close-minded or heartless to deny what you two so clearly share. I'll have strong words for whichever one of you breaks the other one's heart, you understand?" He wagged his finger at them.

"Yes, Father," Sherlock mumbled, as Mycroft nodded his head.

"Good. I shall take my leave of you. Don't stay out too long, it's getting to be nippy out here." Without waiting for a response, he turned to enter the house.

"Well," Mycroft started after a beat, "That was certainly the best possible outcome."

"Yes, I agree. And now that they've gone, I can finally do this." He set their glasses aside, hopping up to sit on the railing. He pulled Mycroft between his open legs. "Back where you belong." He grinned cheekily.

Mycroft stepped closer so their bodies were pressed together. "You'll find no disagreement here." He tilted his head up for a kiss. "We'll be home this time tomorrow, and then I can do more than kiss you."

"Do it tonight anyway."

"No funny business, Father said."

"That didn't stop you nine years ago. No, I believe with the new year, it's now ten."

"We're older and wiser, and should be in possession of a great deal more self-control."

"Sorry to disappoint," Sherlock deadpanned. "You know, I don't think I'm doing my best tempting out here. Come on, let's go back in." He hopped off the railing, pulling his brother behind him.

"You'll not tempt me, Sherlock. It's just one more night."

"Would you bet against it?" He stopped suddenly, causing Mycroft to crash into him. He reached up to pull Mycroft's ear down to his lips. "I bet you that I can have my cock in your mouth in five minutes. If I lose, we'll do it your way."

"Don't get me wrong, but I can't see how this is anything but a lose-lose situation for me."

"Don't worry, Mycroft. If I win, you'll get yours too." With that, he released him to race up the stairs. "Are you coming?"

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm now on [Tumblr](http://fleetingdesires.tumblr.com) for anyone interested to shoot me a message or even to check out what's in the pipeline!
> 
> As always, kudos and comments appreciated. Love y'all xx


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